


Shaken, Not Stirred

by favolefata



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Post series 2 finale, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favolefata/pseuds/favolefata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Series 2 finale. Because we could all do with some schmoop to get over that devastating cliffhanger!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaken, Not Stirred

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voodoochild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/gifts).



> As ever, infinite thanks to the Yuletide Prayer Circle. They know who they are. <3

The first coherent thought to enter Freddie Lyon's head since the memory of blacking out to the blur of Bel on the lawn outside Lime Grove was that perhaps his face wasn't so unmemorable after all. It was rather perturbing to wake up in a private hospital room stuffed to the rafters with get-well cards and gifts, but as he slowly blinked the world more into focus, there was only one place he wanted to look. 

Moving his head to the right - seeking out the chair reserved for visitors - turned out not to be such a good idea and he let out an involuntary whimper at the stab of pain that seemed to emanate from the base of his skull and radiate out across his whole body, bringing all his various injuries into sharp focus. And of course she wasn't even there. Perfect.

But before his heart could sink too low he heard the tap of heels from outside the door and Bel walked into the room, absentmindedly smoothing down the creases in her skirt. 

"Moneypenny..." It came out barely above a whisper, but her eyes immediately locked onto his and began to fill with tears as she rushed over to his side, her hands fluttering over his face, as if unsure whether she was allowed to touch. 

"Oh Freddie you stupid, stupid, utterly infuriatingly stupid man!" Bel sobbed, "I could just hit you right now but I'm not sure if there's anywhere on you that hasn't already had a good going over. What were you THINKING?!" During this pile of admonishments she had pulled the chair flush with the bed and grabbed his hand, resting her head on the pillow beside him, staring into his eyes with such furious concern that he couldn't help smiling. Or at least, the muscles in his face attempted to move to form some sort of expression of joyful sentiment, but it instead ended up more as a grimace of pain.

"Water..." No time for pleasantries - there was too much he needed to know and needed Bel to tell him.

"I'll just stick to being your nursemaid, shall I?" she tutted, letting go of his hand to walk over to a dresser at the other side of the room where a jug of water, as well as some cups and drinking straws, were set. Returning with a full cup, she sat back down and proffered him the end of one of the straws, allowing him to wet his parched throat without any unnecessary exertion on his part. Once satisfied that he could now speak in something above a croak, he flicked the straw out of his mouth with his tongue and began his questioning.

"Cilenti?" It was still an effort to talk - his whole ribcage was a mass of pain, making his breathing somewhat laboured.

"Jail. With no chance of weaselling his way out for a good long while yet. Or hopefully ever. Witnesses at El Paradis - strange how people are so keen to be seen helping shut it down now - reported seeing him leaving the back room in a blood-spattered shirt, whilst his two henchmen were also apprehended with less than clean hands, driving a car that happened to have a blood-stained tie of yours in the boot. This, along with everything we uncovered, made his sentence overwhelmingly inevitable. Of course, doesn’t hurt that Isaac happened to be carrying his camera as he ran out of Lime Grove behind me that night, and took the initiative to get some shots of the general state of your face before we went off in the ambulance. It's surprising what photographs of one of the nation's favourite journalists beaten black and blue will do to focus public feeling about corruption and the current state of the establishment." As she said this, Freddie could see some of the fire come back into her eyes, though her voice was still a little wobbly.

"Good man, Isaac. Always knew he'd make an excellent journalist." He wanted to smile again but knew now that his face must be a swollen mass of bruises, especially considering he was still barely able to open his eyes.

"No you didn't - you treated him like your personal lackey before you left. Don't pretend you don't love a bit of idol-worship being directed your way just as much as Hector does!"

"How is Hector?" 

"Just about holding up. You'd almost think he misses having a co-host. You have him to thank for this room you know - he was immediately using that charm of his to get you all sorts of preferential treatment every time he came to visit in the first couple of weeks.”

"He came to visit?" 

"Of course. He still does - what do you take him for? Marnie too - can't you see her handiwork in the exquisite layout of all these cards and flowers?" She cracked a watery smile, and Freddie squeezed her hand lightly in gratitude for her attempt at lightening the mood.

However, she quickly turned serious again: "I should probably tell you that Commander Sterne shot himself just after the programme went out. Obviously he and Hector weren't as close as they had been,”

“Obviously”

“But it’s hit him hard. Randall has been wonderful at keeping everything going, would you believe. Everyone's been in at one time or another - it's almost become a bit of a rota system!"

"But you've stayed here as much as you could."

"Yes." One simple word, imbued with such feeling as Bel finally leant over and gave him the gentlest of kisses on the lips. Her featherlight touch did more to distract him from the pain than any medicine could, but as Bel moved to sit back down he could see that she was still wearing a pensive expression.

"The hospital contacted Camille. She’s still your wife after all, but it so happened that I was already here when she came to visit. She took one look at the dreadful state I was in, nodded, came over and kissed you on the forehead, whispered something in your ear, and left. No one has heard from her since." 

"She was always far too good for me. She doesn't belong in a draughty flat in Notting Hill. She should be reading poetry on the banks of the Seine, not having to worry about fascists defacing our front door." His voice cracked; the weight of everything that had happened to him suddenly hitting him, along with the guilt of how he'd deluded himself, and this wonderful, free-spirited French girl, into thinking a life together in drab, grey London was what they wanted.

"She saw what was happening to us before I ever did. I don’t know how I’ll be able to thank her.”

"I should think you could start by getting a divorce!" The levity of her voice was belied by her kicking off her shoes and getting up to curl around him in the narrow bed, taking care not to press on any of his injuries, but holding him just enough to let him know that he was not alone. That he would never be alone again.

"I love you, Freddie Lyon" she said forcefully, and though Freddie felt utterly drained from his bout of weeping, he replied with no less force: "I love you, Bel Rowley." 

As he drifted off back to sleep to the gentle rhythm of her breath and the soft touch of her hand on his hair, despite the pain, he felt that maybe their Bond jokes weren't so silly after all - in the end, he had got the girl.


End file.
